


Disremembering Your Name

by winter156



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter156/pseuds/winter156
Summary: Many are born with the mark etched like a tattoo somewhere on their body. Most get the mark before they turn five. Everyone gets their mark by ten.





	Disremembering Your Name

**Author's Note:**

> So here's another thing that came to me. Not a continuation to anything I've already written, but something new entirely. It started small...and then I don't really know what happened.

“Alone, all alone

Nobody, but nobody

Can make it out here alone.”

-Maya Angelou

* * *

Small fingers trace the letters on her mother’s forearm. She’s never known her father, but his name has always been familiar to her. As has the sadness, the hardness, in her mother’s eyes.

She doesn’t ask where he is anymore because she understands, in her child’s mind, that it causes pain. Blue eyes shine up and look into eyes the color of honey. They change color depending on her mother’s mood. Right now they’re warm and amber as they regard her.

“Where’s mine?” She looks at where her fingers trace her mother’s skin before looking back up expectantly.

Warm eyes harden and soften at the same time. Miranda hesitates at the change. That look has only ever accompanied questions about her father. The painful, jagged sadness makes something unpleasant settle in her chest.

She wants to take back the question, wipe the look from her mother’s face.

“Many are born with the mark etched like a tattoo somewhere on their body.” Her mother starts speaking before she can say anything more. Her voice is soft but she puts hard edges on each word. “Most get the mark before they turn five.” It won’t be until years later that Miranda realizes she’s being cruel; that her mother was always hard and cruel but never with her hands, always with her words. “Everyone gets their mark by ten.”

Miranda is eleven. There isn’t comfort in her mother’s tone, just cold bluntness. She turns away from the beautiful face with the suddenly cold eyes. She has to look away from her when her bottom lip begins to quiver. Her mother hates to see her cry. She hates it even more when her mother sees her cry.

“I don’t need anyone,” her voice shakes only a little. She’s learned that words can hide how she feels, and they sound real even though her chest hurts and her eyes burn.

“That’s right,” her mother’s voice is still soft but now pointed, sharp. It pierces Miranda. “You don’t need anyone. Alone is your destiny.”

Miranda is eleven when she learns that words are weapons and love is cruel.

* * *

At fifteen, stripped naked in front of the dirty bathroom mirror she shares with three others, Miranda frantically searches every inch of skin for that mark. Her eyes rove over unmarred and unblemished skin. She’s desperate for any indication of the letters that spell out a name. Any indication that her mother isn’t right…wasn’t right, she corrects herself…that her mother wasn’t right about her destiny.

But Miranda bears no mark. She has no name written on her skin.

She shuffles back through the hallway to her assigned room and crumbles on her tiny, borrowed bed. Tears stream down her face, suddenly and without permission. She clenches her jaw tightly and wipes at them angrily. The realization that she is alone, without another anywhere in the whole world, makes her ache. She stares at the cracked, yellowing wallpaper of this horrible place and misses her mother.

Loneliness wraps around her shoulders and the softness of her heart hardens against the ache of it.

She lays quietly, tears moving silently down her face, and determines in herself that she won’t let this matter. She will be her own happiness.

_I don’t need a soulmate. I don’t need anyone._

* * *

Miranda makes a point never to consciously look for letters on her skin again.

It’s easier to ignore the ache in her chest when she doesn’t give in to her natural inclination to search for the nonexistent mark.

Each year it gets easier. Each year her heart fortifies itself more strongly.

Instead, Miranda focuses on work and succeeding. She spends countless unpaid hours working, crawling her way to the top of a corporate ladder based solely on skill and ruthlessness.

Miranda is efficient and calculating and the ache of loneliness doesn’t touch her when she’s high on adrenaline and caffeine.

At nineteen, she learns that sex is a tool. A useful one. One she determines she will never, ever use to be successful. If she can have nothing else, she will have the integrity of her career.

* * *

“You’re unmarked.”

The comment floats in the air between them as Miranda slips back into her discarded clothing. She feels no need to explain or remark on the comment. She doesn’t even truly remember his name. He merely served as a distraction tonight. A release of stress. Nothing more.

He sits up in bed to look at her. “I didn’t know that happened,” he mutters, tone full of pity.

Miranda’s scathing look silences him immediately. He shrinks under her withering glare. The silence stretches coldly between them. She hates him in that moment. She hates everyone who is simply waiting to meet the person whose name is etched on their skin. But mostly, she hates herself for caring. It’s a sharp, jagged emotion that burns everywhere it touches inside her.

She’s reminded of her mother, then, with her painful, jagged sadness. The memory is a mirror that she can’t look at.

Miranda exits without speaking a word. The click of the door echoes loudly in the quiet.

She hastens home to wash the day, to wash the nameless stranger, from her skin.

* * *

Fall gives way to winter early. Miranda can feel the too-cold air burning her lungs with every long stride of her legs. Sunrise peaks its way over the horizon. She rounds the last bend along the path she takes through Central Park every morning.

A warmth spreads though Miranda so suddenly it breaks her steady, even stride. She stumbles, hands immediately going to her ribs. Her heart hammers in her chest. Her breathing is ragged.

She knows immediately. Without looking, without seeing the evidence, Miranda knows. She feels warmth envelop her despite the fact that her breath condenses on the cold air. The loneliness that has become a part of her lifts and she’s momentarily weightless.

Feeling inexplicably choked up, Miranda resumes her run home at the quickest pace she can manage.

Her hands tremble. It takes her two attempts to insert the key in the lock of her apartment door.

She pauses inside the threshold. The door slams loudly behind her. Everything is quiet after that, except her breathing and her heart. The world has expanded and condensed in the span of a few minutes and the enormity of it settles firmly behind her sternum.

The present snaps back into focus, and Miranda must see, must prove to her eyes what the rest of her already knows. Heart in her throat, she rushes toward her bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes in her haste.

Half-naked, Miranda stops in front of the clean mirror she shares with no one. The chill on her exposed skin doesn’t even register as she leans heavily against the sink; her eyes close tightly against the unexpected fear that this might not be real. Her breathing is loud in the quiet of the room, echoing against tile walls. And despite her mother’s voice echoing in her head, she feels hope and joy course through her; each emotion insistent and pronounced and new. She’s lightheaded.

Taking a deep breath, Miranda opens her eyes. And there it is, under her left breast, crawling across her ribcage.

Her mark.

_Finally_.

It stands in stark contrast against her skin.

In flowing script, the name reads: _Andrea_.

The nagging fear is silenced. Happiness bursts through her and a smile stretches widely across her lips.

A laugh bubbles up and out of her. Miranda trances the name reverently, memorizing each curl of every letter. She falls in love before she’s done tracing the name.

That feeling of connectedness and happiness follow Miranda through a quick shower, through her ritual of choosing an outfit for her day, through her cleanup of the mess she had made in her haste. Happiness follows her through coffee. It follows her to the couch and through a chapter of a book she keeps meaning to finish.

That feeling of wholeness follows her through her wandering mind and it follows her through her fantasies of first meetings. It follows her until her shrewd mind catches up to her smitten heart.

Realization dawns slowly and then quickly on Miranda.

Her world expands and condenses in reverse. And the chaos that’s left is devastating. Nothing inside her feels the same.

The strained _no_ that escapes Miranda is more a wounded sigh. She closes the book and sets it aside gently. Her hands don’t tremble. She thinks her heart would break if it were just a little softer. She ignores the taste of dust and ashes on her tongue.

Her hands cover the name on her ribs through her shirt. She wishes she could erase it, wash it away, tear it off her skin. The sharp bark of laughter that comes out of her mouth sounds too loud in the absolute silence of her apartment. She’s cursed.  

_Alone is your destiny_.

Loneliness wraps itself around her being. It is a familiar ache, but her heart is no longer soft enough to feel its echoing emptiness.

Miranda doesn’t cry. Everything inside her feels like a desolate wasteland.

_I don’t need a soulmate._

Her demeanor sharpens.

_I don’t need anyone._

At twenty-five, Miranda learns the intrinsic nature of hope and heartbreak.

_Least of all, a child._

And she thinks she might begin to understand her mother’s cruelty.

* * *

Only once does Miranda attempt to remove the name. Teeth gritted tightly through the haze of pain, she can see the mark clearly through the blood on her ribs.

_Andrea._

The name taunts her now.

It would have been better to remain unmarked than to be separated by the chasm of time.

It’s an unbridgeable expanse to Miranda. During moments of weakness, when her heart reminds her that it still feels and still wants, she tries to imagine the possibility of meeting, of finding, her Andrea. But she despairs when reality creeps back into her conscious mind. And she silences the desire of her heart, crushes it beneath fact and truth.

They will never be at the same stages in their lives. There will never be a time when their lives could intersect. They’re from entirely different worlds even though they’re born in the same lifetime.

Miranda decides to forget the mark exists.

She won’t be chained by the whims of a mercurial fate. She pretends not to feel the press of the name even when the scratches she made on herself have long since healed.

* * *

It’s a mistake. Miranda knows before she marries him, before they have children.

She knows it’s all a big mistake, from before the beginning. But she tries to salvage their relationship anyway. For her girls.

Because her mother was wrong. About so many, many things. She has never been further from understanding the woman. Her girls don’t deepen her loneliness, they fill it. She’s never wanted to be cruel to them, especially not with words.

So because Miranda loves them fiercely and more than anything, she tries. Because they have opened up the world for her, opened up her heart, in a way she never thought possible. Because for them she would do anything, even stay when she doesn’t want to.

But he’s done trying; and she really doesn’t try very hard.

It’s a relief to see him go. She tells herself she couldn’t love him.

She tells herself he couldn’t love her either. They both bare a different person’s name on their skin. They were never meant to succeed.

She tells herself they couldn’t love each other.

She refuses to acknowledge that she didn’t want to.

* * *

Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees shoes come to a stop just inside her office. Unfashionable, ugly shoes.

Miranda closes the drawer and turns her chair. No one would notice her double take, but she has to look twice.

Six small letters burn across her ribcage. Her heart beats suddenly, wildly in her chest.

“Who are you?”

But, she knows. Miranda knows who she is. She can feel it the way the air is sucked out of her lungs; and in the way heat radiates out from the name on her ribs; and in the way her heart recognizes the girl even though she’s a stranger. Miranda feels in it in the way her world expands and expands and expands and nothing settles right but keeps enlarging inside of her. She feels it in the way her loneliness loosens around her being and she feels nearly complete simply in the presence of this girl… _her_ Andrea.

The girl is awkward and nervous and Miranda wonders if her skin is burning, too. She fumbles through an introduction.

Miranda almost asks her to repeat the name when it isn’t quite right, but doesn’t. She listens and almost laughs at the idea that this girl wants to work for her. How horribly ironic. She would wield tremendous power over her. Twice her age and her boss and her…her soulmate. The word makes her heart shudder.

If she were a man, it would almost be acceptable.

She sobers at the universe’s idea of a joke. It reminds her that she has been alone all these years. She has survived a lifetime without Andrea, she can survive the rest of it without her.

So instead of accepting the gift fate has brought to her, Miranda is cruel. Ignores her. She dismisses her. Crushes her own heart before it can run away with itself. She clings to the loneliness she’s used to; it has been the only constant in her life.

But, Andrea surprises her with her rebuttal. It’s not the words so much as the sudden fire in brown eyes, the fight, the passion. It makes the name on her ribs burn almost to the point of pain. And, she can’t pretend the audacious outburst doesn’t intrigue her.

A will to match her own. That’s something she has never considered. Until now.

Miranda has to force herself to stay still, stay firm, when Andrea huffs in irritation and walks away. She’s never wanted to follow anyone, but the urge to chase the impudent girl feels strange and compulsive. She reins the impulse immediately and ignores it.

She tamps down on the urge to defend the ungainly creature when Nigel is completely honest in his assessment of her.

Later, when she tells Emily to call her back, she pretends it means nothing, merely curiosity.

She repeats the mantra of her youth and bolsters herself against hope.

_I don’t need anyone._

Miranda ignores the burn of the name on her ribcage. She has much practice at it.

At forty-nine, Miranda learns that fate is inevitable and mighty but choice is always hers.

* * *

It’s far easier than she anticipated to wound the girl. She suspects it’s because Andrea never expects the barbs to come from her.

Every time brown eyes darken with hurt, Miranda ignores the sharp stab of guilt. The girl is too soft, too transparent to work in an industry that requires a firm mask.

To quiet the uncomfortable sensation that settles behind her chest every time she says something disparaging to Andrea, Miranda tells herself she’s teaching her to grow a thicker skin. The girl can’t hope to work in journalism without a thick skin.

And she certainly can’t hope to work anywhere where she doesn’t respect the work she’s doing. Dressing her down during that run through is easy, because it _bothers_ her that Andrea thinks so little of her work that she can mock it in her presence. That’s why she’s sharp, pointed, harsh, and cruel with unerring accuracy. And right. She is most certainly right. She drives that point home with an unblinking stare and soft words with hard edges that echo loudly. Just like her mother taught her.

Miranda tells herself she’s doing the girl a favor. She can’t admit to herself that it hurts that Andrea doesn’t care about her life’s work. Admitting to hurt would mean she cares about the girl’s opinion, and that would mean she could possibly care about more than Andrea’s opinion.

But, Miranda can’t deny something withers inside of her every time Andrea clenches her jaw and turns her eyes away and wills herself to take the cruelty without retort. Miranda doesn’t look at her anymore when she throws pointed comments at her. She refuses to look at the damage she inflicts.

It’s easier to be cruel when she doesn’t look. In that regard, her mother was right.

But, it’s easiest to be pointedly harsh with her words when she’s disappointed. Even when Andrea isn’t at fault, even when the person she’s disappointed with is herself. The girl is the easiest and most conspicuous target to attack.

She misses her girls’ big night. And it’s her fault she left in the first place. She knows Andrea did all she could. But it’s easier to put the blame on her than to point that anger at herself. It’s easier to throw hard untruths than to remember the resigned acceptance on two identical faces. Because, those faces look like hers did three decades prior. Because, it’s her greatest failure that she has become her mother.

It’s both infuriating and disappointing and it presses loneliness and disappointment into every part of her. So, Miranda does what she’s honed to a razor sharp skill, she redirects that on to someone else. Because words are weapons, her very best weapon.

She aims for the cracks in the armor and presses hardest at the places she knows hurt Andrea most. Because she wants the aching emptiness in her reflected in this person that fate says is tied to her. She wants to see how strong that bond really is…how weak it is. She wants to prove fate a liar. Because love is cruel.

But, she can’t force herself to look at the damage she’s inflicting. Not directly. She paces and takes small, inconspicuous glances at the eyes that hide nothing. To see how true her aim is doesn’t make Miranda feel better. It makes the gaping emptiness insider her widen.

The name on her ribs burns painfully.

Miranda finally understands why her mother hated to see her cry. But, she doesn’t retract her words. She doesn’t know how. Her mother never taught her how to apologize.

* * *

Miranda wonders for one sleepless night if Andrea will return. She’s conflicted about whether she wants her to or not.

She can’t deny the relief that loosens her shoulders when she sees her though. And, then she sees the whole of her.

Miranda’s eyes devour Andrea. She does it under the guise of inspecting the girl’s new “self”, but that’s only partly true. The hard thud of her heart, insistent in its desire, doesn’t let her forget that she’s looking at much more than the clothes.

It shouldn’t impress her as much as it does. The clothes, the hair, the shoes, the make-up. She looks at beautiful people, beautiful clothes, beautiful artistry every single day. She lives and breathes this life. But, she knows without Andrea needing to explain it, that this is her apology.

Her acknowledgement that she was wrong about her view of Miranda’s work, that she should’ve tried harder, that she cares enough to shift her perception of Miranda’s world. She is trying to say it without words, and Miranda is listening. She accepts it, graciously and without comment, because she’s never spent a sleepless night on anyone and it’s jarring to miss something that isn’t even hers.

And, Miranda is trying to apologize, too, for words she shouldn’t have said, for being unable to unsay them. She’s trying to apologize as much as her position will allow, which is very little. But she’s more careful with her words, gives praise, she looks at what Andrea is offering even though she cannot take it. It’s the best she can do within the confines of their positions.

But something shifts inside of her at the offer, Miranda loosens the grip she holds on her loneliness. And something else settles inside her, something soft but unyielding in its intensity. Something unfamiliar and new and aching. Longing, almost.

That small something flutters to life inside the chaos of her emptiness. Now that she’s not actively trying to destroy it, Miranda’s world is exploding out from that small flame. It’s enlarging around her. It includes it in a new addition that has always seemed to be part of her life, either in absence or in mistimed appearance.

Her landscape, her universe, now includes this girl that looks more and more like a woman every day.

But embarrassment almost stamps out the flame. Andrea is never supposed to know anything more than surface details about Stephen. Miranda can’t articulate to herself why that matters, but it does. Stephen is supposed to be an uncomplicated accessory. Those are the terms of their arrangement. But, she should’ve looked more closely at his predilections. He’s her mistake; she never wanted Andrea to know the depth of that miscalculation.

So she demands the impossible, because having a reason to rid herself of the weighty brown eyes that make the name on her ribs burn pleasantly is of paramount importance.

Andrea, though, does the impossible. And her eyes say what her mouth can’t.

Miranda believes her. She allows that small flame to burn unchecked within her.

And she thinks she might recognize the unfamiliar emotion, but fear keeps her mind from allowing the thing to be named. Her heart feels no compunction to listen to logic and wraps love around every cell of her body. Until, the insistent ache of it is familiar.

And her chaos begins to order itself with Andrea as its gravitational center.

* * *

The silence lasts until the elevator doors slide closed and then Andrea is speaking.

Miranda lets her.

It’s mostly little nothings. Her weekend, her friends, her favorite books. Sometimes it’s big things. Her parents, her childhood, her dreams. Always personal, never about work.

Miranda doesn’t interrupt, and as of yet has never volunteered anything herself. But, she listens attentively, with all her focus and attention on every word. She’s surprised at the depth of her fascination and need to know this woman. Her heart is always warm and full after they exit an elevator.

Miranda notices the change in them but doesn’t know exactly what to attribute it to. They simply seem to fit better.

It’s easy to allow Andrea to take liberties with how she anticipates and executes her needs. And, it’s far easier than it should be to favor her and allow her privileges no other assistant has been afforded before her, or will be after her. Miranda doesn’t think too hard about the after Andrea part, because she hasn’t decided what to do and thinking of an end to this…thing…they share makes her restless and unhappy.

She watches Andrea through the reflective metal surface of the elevator. She’s animated but nervous; she doesn’t look back at Miranda’s reflection.

Miranda feels her heart rate pick up slightly. She might be nervous, too.

“So,” Andrea finally looks at Miranda’s reflection. She pauses. Swallows almost audibly. “Mine says Miranda.”

Miranda’s world tilts. Those three words erase any possibility of doubt. And Miranda had very little doubt before.

They stare at one another’s reflections, unable to turn and look one another face to face. The reality of the spoken truth settles heavily around them.

“Give me a chance,” her voice doesn’t shake, but her hands do. Miranda admires her bravery and her very young and very soft heart. “Don’t decide I’m not for you when you haven’t even allowed me to make the attempt.” Her brown eyes plead as much as her mouth. Miranda can’t look away.

“Andrea,” Miranda finally expels softly, warmly, with no hard edges. Maybe a confirmation, but mostly an apology because she can’t, they can’t. Even though Miranda is finding fewer and fewer reasons why they shouldn’t.

The elevator slides to a stop and the doors open smoothly.

Andrea exits without another word.

And for the second time in their acquaintance, Miranda reins in the wild and sudden impulse to chase her.

* * *

Christian Thompson follows them to Paris.

Miranda doesn’t like the spiky heat that engulfs her every time she seems him near Andrea. She dislikes the grip of icy fingers around her heart even more every time Andrea smiles at him, every time she’s charmed by him, every time she gives him her undivided attention.

So, she ignores them. Pretends they don’t exist and that she isn’t keeping an eye on them as she glides through the room.

But, in the elevator, on their way up to their rooms for the night, tired and jet lagged, her heart gets the better of Miranda. “What is he offering you?” She asks. It’s too loud in the quiet of the small space and it has a definite edge of accusation.

There’s silence for several heartbeats. Long enough for Miranda to wonder if she’ll get an answer.

Andrea sighs and turns to look at Miranda, not just the reflection of her on the metal walls. She’s been braver but more subdued since she asked for a chance to love her. Miranda suspects she’s waiting for her to make a decision.

“A job,” she says with unexpected sharpness. She’s immediately contrite, because she’s not Miranda and she doesn’t want to be. She sighs and brings a hand up to rub the bridge of her nose. “A writing job,” she says again, no hard, sharp edges on her words.

Miranda’s heart aches and she says nothing. The name on her ribs burns unpleasantly.

She exits the elevator first and ignores the half-raised hand that she thinks might have reached for her had she given permission.

Miranda doesn’t return the soft _goodnight_ that floats to her ears before her door closes firmly behind her.

* * *

Miranda glares at the divorce papers and seethes.

She knows that Stephen was a worse mistake than the girls’ father was. But, she had wanted something resembling normalcy for her girls. He had been bland enough to fit the bill.

The thought of what the media will say about her, how that will affect Caroline and Cassidy, makes her stomach knot uncomfortably.

She sits heavily on the couch. She doesn’t bother to change out of her robe. It’s comfortable and she’s miserable. The tears surprise her. They’re quick, hot pinpricks of liquid down her face. And once they’ve started, they refuse to be stopped.

Miranda gives in and lets them flow. Because she has everything she ever strived for, everything she ever set her mind to. But, it all teeters precariously at the edge of a great abyss. The career, the job, she’s given her life and passion to stands to be ripped from her fingertips. The regard and esteem of her daughters taken by the pages of slander and ignominy provided by the coward of the man she married. And Andrea to the newness of a world wanting her. Andrea who she never allowed to be hers in the first place.

When the tears finally stop, she’s left empty even of grief. Miranda is hollowed out.

When Andrea walks through the door, she has nothing left. She doesn’t even have the energy to worry that she is being seen without the armor of her trade. She sits in her grey robe with bare feet, bare face, and bare heart. She’s tired of hiding.

Brown eyes watch her, measure her. Miranda lets her. She sees sadness, or pity, or both creep into Andrea’s eyes. And she hates that look. It reminds her too much of her mother. She looks away.

“What can I do to help?”

The question reaches into her chest and she wants to say _stay, be with me_. But what comes out makes Andrea clench her jaw and stand to get her things together. She’s almost to the door when she turns and looks Miranda in the eyes.

“I quit.” She says it just loud enough to reach Miranda’s ears. But it isn’t a misspoken statement, her face is set in grim determination. And Miranda knows she’s serious.

The sluggish beat of her heart stops before picking up and beating loudly, harshly in her ears. She’s certain every molecule of oxygen has escaped the room. Her chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. The emptiness inside her fills with the urge to cry again. She closes her eyes and turns away from Andrea. She hates that she might cry in front of her.

The clasp of a warm hand in her own makes her gasp. Her eyes fly open and she looks at the woman seated beside her. Vibrant and open and strong and so, so real. The name written on her ribs, six small letters, burn so strongly it feels like her skin is on fire. But, it doesn’t hurt. It’s an engulfing heat that doesn’t feel oppressive but comforting.

“I can’t work for you anymore,” she says softly, her eyes on their hands.

She has never touched Andrea before. At this moment, she can’t imagine why. The warmth of her skin feels incredible. She opens her palm and allows Andrea’s fingers to slip between her own before gently closing her hand and cradling Andrea’s hand in hers. To Miranda the touch is infinitely intimate. She can’t remember the last time she held hands with someone like this; she’s not sure she ever has.

“Because I don’t want to just do my job,” Andrea isn’t whispering but she’s speaking so low Miranda has to lean in to hear her. A brown gaze holds blue eyes. “I want to do so much more than get your coffee, remind you of meetings, do impossible things for you.” There’s a smile that Miranda can hear more than see in those words.

But, she can see seriousness straighten narrow shoulders. “You need me to do my job because I work for you. But, I only work for you because I _had_ to come back to you and this was the fastest and easiest way to do that.” Her gaze slips away from Miranda’s as she remembers. “I was never going to give up so easily. I knew the moment I walked into that office who you were.” She shakes her head. “Well, who you were to me, I had no idea who you were except that you were _my_ Miranda.”

And that statement makes heat envelop Miranda’s chest. And her world is not simply expanding and enlarging its being created at the edges. Everything is new and wonderful and Miranda feels the rawness of that newness but it’s not as terrifying as it is thrilling.

“Walking away without saying something, _anything_ , was one of the hardest things I’ve done. So, I already had several plans in mind on how to get back to you when I got the call that I was hired,” the smile is evident in her voice, on her face. “I would’ve never gone back had I not been so sure of you.” She rubs small circles with her thumb on the back on Miranda’s hand. “I wasn’t made for _Runway_.” She huffs out a small laugh. “But I was made for you.”

Miranda’s heart trembles at the simplicity and enormity of that sentence.

“Those things usually go hand in hand,” she looks back at their entwined hands. “But given the choice between the editor and the woman, I choose the woman.” She squeezes the hand in hers gently.

Miranda doesn’t know how to respond. She’s not prepared for Andrea. She’s waited her whole life, raged against the unfairness of fate her whole life, but she is still unprepared for the reality of facing this woman, of making this choice.

Sadness and resignation crawl into brown eyes the longer the silence stretches. Andrea sighs but doesn’t let go of Miranda’s hand. “I’ll take the editor, though, if that’s the only choice available.” She looks at Miranda then, with eyes that say what her mouth doesn’t. “I’ll take you any way you’ll let me have you.”

She’s so accustomed to her aloneness that Miranda considers denying Andrea, denying them. There will always be a chasm of decades between them. There will always be her girls. There will always be experiences they do not and cannot share. But, she _knows_ Andrea now, not simply the name on ribs but the woman. She knows her favorite color, where she grew up, what she thinks of their government, her friends, her character, her loyalty, her bravery.

And everything else seems so small in face of the love Andrea has for her, in the love Miranda can’t name but reciprocates.

And she’ll be damned if this woman half her age is braver than she is when it counts. They’re cut from the same cloth. They’re made for one another. It would not do to be a coward in the face of such valiance, such patience, such love.

Because it _is_ love. Miranda knows herself better in relation to Andrea. She knows now that the new, unfamiliar feeling that aches within her but doesn’t hurt is love. Miranda can see it clearly now. She can certainly _feel_ it. And it’s dizzying and powerful…and full. Complete. Too big for loneliness and aloneness.

“No,” Miranda finally responds, her eyes moving between their hands and brown eyes, “that’s not the only choice.”

The hand that cups Miranda’s cheek is warning enough that the kiss is coming, but the lips pressing softly on hers still feel like…like being born she thinks…opening new eyes to a new world. Everything is loud and chaotic and wonderful and miraculous.

Andrea pulls back, her pupils blown to black, her hand hot on Miranda’s cheek. “Wow.”

The word makes a bubble of happiness explode in her being. Her lips are smiling as she moves to close the distance between them. The second kiss feels as earth shattering as the first. Miranda hopes that feeling never fades.

Every nerve ending in her body has come alive. She _feels_ alive. Connected to the universe in an inexplicable way. But grounded, part of the world, in a way she’s never felt before. She belongs. She’s come home after wandering aimlessly for forty-nine years.

She’s not alone.

She’s home.

In a lavish room in Paris, in the arms of the woman whose name is written on her heart, Miranda learns to silence her mother’s voice.

* * *

“I like the way you say my name,” it’s said almost as a throwaway comment, but Miranda can hear the hitch of breath at the end. She knows how Andrea sounds over the phone very well now. And this is new.

Miranda’s heartbeat picks up and heat washes through her. She gets up and locks the door to her study. The townhouse is empty, but she wants to be sure if this conversation goes where she thinks it might that her daughters don’t barge in on her when they get home.

“Andrea,” she says slowly, unsure but curious and a little hopeful, “what are you doing?”

There’s a seven hour time difference between them and Miranda reasons Andrea could be tired from a long day and that’s why she sounds different. It’s Saturday but she seems to rarely take days off.

“I miss you,” Andrea ignores the question.

“Come home,” Miranda says simply. She doesn’t plead; she already tried that. She never asked her to leave. She would’ve chased her, but Andrea had made her decision very clear. Miranda has respected it, but it doesn’t mean she particularly likes it.

“Soon,” she says and means it. “Very soon.”

Miranda can hear the rustle of bed sheets and the small sigh on the other end of the line. She can still feel the thrill of want between them but doesn’t know how to articulate that. She’s never really had a desire to try this with anyone before; she has no point of reference, no practice.

“I’m naked,” Andrea says suddenly into the quiet that’s settled between them. It’s too quick and blunt to be anything but her first try at this, too.

“Subtle,” there’s no bite to the word. Miranda laughs, fully. The thrill of knowing this is something that they can experience together for the first time is almost as exciting as the fact of what they’re sharing. No matter how badly they do at it, it will be something that’s completely theirs.

Andrea’s laugh sends a thrill down Miranda’s spine, because it’s deeper than usual. It’s roughened by desire. And a vivid image paints itself across Miranda’s mind as she really registers what Andrea just told her. Warmth blooms across all of Miranda, she feels it settle between her legs. She sits on the couch and slips her shoes off. She presses the phones closer to her ear. She wants to hear every breath, every sound.

“It’s too fucking hot for subtlety,” there’s still traces of laughter in her voice. “Not the only reason I’m laying here naked.” She takes a deep breath. “I dreamt of you last night. It’s stayed with me all day. I haven’t been able to get much work done.”

There really isn’t much of anything they haven’t talked about. Of course, they’ve talked about sex before. And Miranda knows what she’s done after they’ve gotten off the phone after particularly interesting conversations, so she can only assume Andrea’s done the same. But, they’ve never consciously stoked each and then stayed on the line. She’s more than intrigued; no one has ever been able to excite her without physical stimulation before. Andrea does it effortlessly.

She lets out a shaky sigh and licks her lips. “What was your dream about?”

“We’re really doing this?” The question comes on a puffed breath.

“Only if you want to,” Miranda says immediately.

“God, yes, I want to,” her breathing is short and Miranda wonders if she’s already started. Her heart beats wildly at the thought. “I’ve been wet all day just thinking of you. Hearing your voice…I think just that will make me come.”

The words, the knowledge of Andrea’s state makes wet heat settle between her thighs. Miranda shifts unconsciously. Her grip on the phone tightens.

“What was I doing to you last night?” Desire pitches her voice low. She can hear the small catches in Andrea’s breathing and she doesn’t know if she can hear the slip of fingers over wet flesh, but she’s imagining it. She shifts again when wetness coats her underwear. “Are you touching yourself to thoughts of my hands on your skin?” Her voice is low and rough and her mind supplies ample imagery to keep talking.

“I would start with your mouth because I miss your kisses.” Sharp breaths and soft curses make Miranda smile. “And then your breasts, because you have exquisite breasts. I would suck your nipples and let my hands open your thighs and slip through the wet flesh between them, slip my fingers into you, until you were trembling beneath me.” Her breath catches and she has to take a moment. Her hand opens the button of her pants and her fingers stop at the top of her panties.

“Are you touching yourself, too?” The question is delivered on a shallow, shaky breath.

She sucks in a breath when her fingers touch hot, wet flesh. “Yes.”

“The dream was actually me on my knees tasting you, eating you, fucking you.”

Miranda jerks against the palm of her hand the image of Andrea between her legs burning behind her eyelids. She _can_ hear Andrea now. And her mind supplies the image of her naked with her fingers slipping in and out of her in frenzied intent. She’s sure Andrea can hear her, too.

It suddenly doesn’t matter that they’re bad at this, practice can make them better. What matters is that this is an intimate thing they’re sharing. Across all the miles and all the hours between them, they are giving and taking pleasure from each other. They’re allowing each other to be present in this moment with each other.

There’s nothing but heavy breathing on the line for the space of several heartbeats. Then Andrea moans and Miranda pulses around her fingers because the sound is primal and deep and it resonates through the deepest parts of her.

“Fuck,” the curse slips out, her breathing is ragged, “you’re beautiful. I want you here with me so I can show you how much I love you.”

Andrea’s breaths come fast and shallow and then stop completely for several seconds like she’s suspended in pleasure. Then the long, low moan of Andrea coming reaches the thousands of miles between them and breaks Miranda over the edge.

She shakes around her hand and lets pleasure roll through her before leaning back heavily on the couch. She’s winded, her breathing coming in sharp, deep pants. She keeps her hand in her pants and the phone pressed tightly against her ear. She doesn’t have the energy to move anything right now.

They catch their breaths for a minute and don’t say anything. They listen to each other breathe.

“We did that,” Andrea finally breaks the silence. She sounds sleepy and satisfied and a little bit awed.

Miranda can hear the smile in her voice, she imagines it in her mind’s eye. Her lips automatically emulate what her mind shows her. “We did.”

“I love you, too, Miranda,” she says softly, the sleepiness of a moment ago not dispelled but much less evident.

Miranda sits up in surprise, her heart beating wildly in a different way. The name on her ribs radiates warmth through her.

“I’ll be home soon.”

* * *

The fire burns brightly in the darkened room.

Miranda takes a slow sip of the wine. She savors it in her mouth as she watches the fire dance across the thick logs. She relaxes against the couch.

The townhouse is empty but Miranda doesn’t feel the loneliness that used to be a part of her. Instead, she feels full of warmth and love. Every corner of this house is filled with memories, most good, some bad. But, it’s not a desolate place. It’s full of life and living.

She thinks of Caroline and Cassidy and how she loves them and how grateful she is for them. She will be better for them, better than her mother was to her. She knows she already has been, even though she’s failed at times.

She’s learning from those failures and mending things where she can. That’s why she didn’t argue when their father wanted to spend this Thanksgiving with them. He was a mistake, but her girls never were. And they deserve them both as much as they can have them. So, she relinquishes some control for them.

Miranda’s eyes go to the desk where she shoved the official papers. Two sets of finalized divorce papers, one old and one new, sit locked in a drawer. She’s grateful for both being dissolved as quickly as New York law allows. That mistake she will not be repeating.

The name on her ribs burns with longing, with missing the woman who is far away from her. But Miranda is filled with hope and love for their future. She’s waited a lifetime for Andrea and the waffled on the choice before her at first; she can wait as long as Andrea needs, she understands the need to make the choice herself, on her terms.

Movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. She stands and moves to the window. The world has gone quiet as snow begins to blanket the streets. A smile touches her lips and she thinks for a moment that the universe was made just to be seen by her eyes.

It’s beautiful and she feels awed and in love and whole.

Miranda almost misses the figure walking through the snowfall to her door. But the name burning on her skin insists she pay attention. And her heart beating wildly in her throat reminds her that she’s not dreaming.

She’s at the door swinging it open before Andrea has a chance to knock.

Miranda stares until her heart has slowed and her hands don’t shake. Andrea smiles and waves awkwardly. Miranda is reminded of the first time she saw her in her office and her heart feels gutted in the same way, but loneliness isn’t part of her anymore, and Andrea is hers as much as she’s Andrea’s.

She pulls her into the warmth of the house, into the warmth of her arms. And she holds her, tightly, not wanting to ever let her go again.

Andrea hangs on just as tightly.

“You’re home,” her voice cracks on the words. She might be crying, but not from sadness.

“Yeah,” Andrea’s voice is happy but wobbly, “I’m home.”

Miranda pulls back and sees that she’s definitely crying and her heart bursts within her with happiness and love. She’s kissing Andrea before she’s even thought it consciously. And at the press of soft lips, still cold from outside, her world rights itself and expands at the edges and she feels more full than she has ever felt in her life. Complete.

“I’ve missed you,” Andrea says with tears still in her eyes and voice.

“And I you,” Miranda’s voice is soft, “very much.” She helps Andrea out of her coat and takes her to sit in front of the fire. She refills her wine glass and pours Andrea a glass.

“You’re alone?” Andrea takes the wine and sips it slowly, eyes firmly on Miranda.

“Not anymore,” the certainty in Miranda’s voice speaks to more than just the empty townhouse.

She sits next to Andrea and they share a comfortable silence as they drink their wine. Their hands end up entwined, Miranda looks down and wonders at them, at their easy intimacy.

“Why did you leave?” She finally asks, needing to know.

Andrea takes a final drink from her glass and sets it aside before taking Miranda’s glass and putting it aside, too. She turns toward on the couch and takes both her hands. She waits until blue eyes look into her gaze. “I wouldn’t have been able to stay away if I had stayed here.”

“I didn’t ask you to stay away,” Miranda reminds her, a little pointedly.

“I know.” Andrea’s thumbs rub unconscious circles on the backs of her hands. “But I wasn’t going to be the person that tarnished your reputation about work related affairs.”

Miranda narrows her eyes and shakes her head.

“I looked up every scrap of information I could after I left your office that first time,” Andrea continues, undeterred, “Know what I found besides your successes?” Her eyebrows go up. “Nothing.”

“And?” Miranda’s eyebrows go up, too. This isn’t news to her.

“There’s never nothing.” Andrea shrugs. “There’s only ever nothing when there’s actually nothing. You’re career has spanned too many decades for something to have stayed hidden if it were there.”

“There isn’t anything hidden,” Miranda says, a bit dumbfounded.

“Exactly. You never slept with anyone at work. Never an office fling with a coworker. Never an affair with a boss. Never a scandal of any sexual nature with anyone you worked with.” Brown eyes are looking at her intensely. “Do you know what the headlines would’ve been had I stayed?”

Realization dawns on Miranda, but she’s still confused. “I could’ve handled it. It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“I know you could’ve handled it, but it wouldn’t have been easy.” Andrea leans in and kisses her just because she can. “You were going through a divorce, getting the magazine back under your control, and dealing with the fallout that those things entailed. Adding to that what the world would have seen as you abusing your position as my boss…that would’ve driven you crazy.” She pauses and bites her lip. “And it _would_ have mattered. I know how much you care about your work.” She lets out a slow breath. “I made a mistake about your job once.” She squeezes the hands in hers. “I didn’t want to repeat that mistake with your hard earned reputation.”

Miranda’s mind immediately goes to dressing down during the run through. “I wouldn’t have done what I did during the run through,” she needs Andrea to know the situation would’ve been different.

“I know,” she says, nodding. “But I wanted, want, you to know my views of your job are different than they were at the beginning.”

Miranda nods, she knows.

Andrea disentangles their hands and stands, nervous energy coming off her in waves. Nervous about what exactly, Miranda is unsure. Perhaps being here together after so long. She hands Miranda her still half-full wine glass but doesn’t retake her seat.

“By the way, you are so fucking hot when you’re angry.” The teasing smirk let’s Miranda know she’s only half joking.

“You liked that?” Miranda takes a long drink of her wine trying to hide her surprise.

“Well no,” brown eyes look away as she remembers, “the verbal dressing down made me feel horribly small. But I’d been trying to get you to see me. And though it was bad attention, I had your full regard focused entirely on me.” She’s looking down at Miranda now, eyes focused and intense. “That’s incredibly arousing.” She looks away. “But, I also learned a lot. That I knew very little about what you did and its importance at large.” She sits next to Miranda again, pressed thigh to thigh. “I learned to respect the things you loved. And I learned that the fashion industry is incredibly important to many aspects of a thriving economy.” She leans slightly into Miranda. “I don’t love it as much as you do but I respect it. I’m more interested in the commodification of labor as it pertains to maintaining the system moving. I’m more interested in the people. But, I now have a healthy respect and admiration for what you do.”

Miranda digests that information and watches Andrea. She’s grown up, in small ways and in large ways.

They don’t speak for a moment.

“It bothered me—” Miranda stops because Andrea has never been anything but honest with her, and she’s ready to reciprocate that facet of herself in this new and wonderful thing they are creating together. “It _hurt_ that you didn’t care. That you thought so little of what I spent my life building. It offended me.”

“I did need to learn.” Andrea’s eyes are warm as they look at her. The apology at an old, unintended slight clear in her eyes. “The lesson sucked but it wasn’t wasted on me.”

Understanding flows between their gazes.

“They’re still going to try and say we were together since you worked for me,” Miranda says, going back to the original point of their conversation.

“Yeah, I know. They’ll try, but we didn’t actually do anything until I quit,” Andrea shrugs. “And then only a few kisses that no one but us knows about. You’re legally divorced now and I haven’t worked for you in any capacity for months. I haven’t even been in the same country. They’ll have very little to stand on if they try and print any of that now.”

Andrea stands again and goes to refills their empty glasses but thinks better of it. But she doesn’t retake her seat. She looks out the window and watches the falling snow blanket the world. “And mostly, I think I needed to grow up a little. Sort of grow into myself.” Miranda nods but Andrea isn’t looking at her. “I got so caught up in the fact that I’d found you, that I became singularly focused on you.”

“Obsessed,” Miranda interjects blithely, smile in her voice but carefully off her face.

“Not in a bad way,” she rejoins easily, her eyes back on Miranda, “and you loved it.” Her smile crinkles around her eyes and brightens her face and Miranda falls a little more in love with her.

“Perhaps,” Miranda shrugs and feigns indifference.

Her laugh causes an automatic smile to bloom across Miranda’s face. She thinks it odd and wonderful that someone else’s happiness can cause her happiness.

Andrea sits on the coffee table opposite Miranda. Their knees touch. Her face smooths out and her brown eyes darken in seriousness.

“I needed to know that I could live without you,” she doesn’t close her eyes, doesn’t hide from Miranda, “even though I never want to. I needed to have the same certainty you have about it.”

Miranda understands all the words not being said, and she isn’t as afraid to voice them as Andrea. “Because all things being equal, one day you’ll have to live without me.”

Andrea stiffens at the words being spoken aloud, her face a mixture of heartbreak and resignation.

“It’s our reality,” Miranda says with all the wisdom of the quarter century she has on Andrea, “we cannot change it.”

Andrea bows her head and lets out a long sigh.

Miranda slips her fingers under Andrea’s chin and raises it gently. Her thumb traces the soft, soft lips. Brown eyes look into her, sadness tinges the gaze but there is no hardness, no bitterness in brown eyes. “But we can make the most of it.” Miranda smiles gently at _her_ Andrea and kisses her just as gently.

Andrea deepens the kiss. She presses closer and harder until she’s climbing onto Miranda’s lap and pushing hands into her hair to hold her closer, tighter to her mouth. Until there’s nothing gentle and tame about the kiss. She opens her lips against Miranda’s and there’s very little thought but acquiescence to the onslaught of sensory overload. Because it feels good to want and to be wanted.

Miranda’s body is suddenly and wonderfully awake. She’s aflame.

She slides her hands up and around knees and thighs and stops at an enticing backside. She squeezes experimentally and the shudder that moves up Andrea and ends up as a moan in her mouth is delightful.

“Why exactly have we waited so long to do this?” Miranda is a little breathless, a lot teasing, and very excited. She thinks for a moment that she might be too old for Andrea’s insistent kisses. Kisses that are both hard and soft. A contradiction like the woman herself.

But Andrea seems as far gone as she is and that’s gratifying on a purely primal level. That she can excite this young woman to the point of breathlessness and inarticulateness is entirely too addicting.

“I’ve been dreaming about this since…” Miranda starts and stops at another insistent kiss.

“…the makeover?” Andrea sounds curious, but not enough to stop touching Miranda.

“No,” Miranda hands find their way under Andrea’s shirt, “since the interview.”

“Really?” Andrea stills and pulls back a little, breath ragged with excitement and eyes glazed. “Back when I was still the smart, fat girl?” The rawness of the words freezes them both in place. Andrea looks away, face set in consternation like the words surprise even her. As if perhaps she isn’t aware they’re bothering her until the very moment she speaks them.

Miranda watches as Andrea tries to dismiss the words in her mind. She slips a hand out from under her shirt and rests it on a slightly turned cheek. She waits until brown eyes are looking at her. “If I could unsay those words, I would. I’m sorry.”

Brown eyes mist and Andrea’s nodding as if those words absolve Miranda immediately.

“You forgive too easily,” Miranda says softly, endeared to this beautiful creature above her.

“I can’t help it,” she reflexively presses a quick kiss to Miranda’s nose, as if she’s done it a thousand times before, “I love you and I want to. So when you apologize, it’s easy.”

Miranda feels the universe expand and condense inside her chest, and everything settles right, feels right, _is_ right. “I love you, too,” she whispers, because it’s sacred and meant only for Andrea’s ears.

Andrea kisses her again, but it’s different. Miranda feels the same passion but desperation doesn’t stick to it anymore.

When Andrea pulls back a second time, eyes bright, she seems hesitant. “Can I see it?”

In her haze of arousal, it takes Miranda a moment to interpret the question. “See what?”

“My name.”

Miranda hesitates for a long moment before readjusting them so she has room to pull the sweater she’s wearing off. She watches the growing hunger in Andrea’s eyes as each inch of her abdomen is revealed. She watches until the fabric covers her face briefly and then she’s mostly bare underneath Andrea.

Andrea’s gaze burns everywhere it lights. She licks her lips, her eyes momentarily stuck on the slope of Miranda’s breasts.

Miranda feels a flush creep across her chest. She knows the exact moment Andrea notices the name on her ribs nestled just below the fabric of her bra. She raises her hand but looks to Miranda before touching. Miranda nods. Even though she can see the touch coming, the feel of fingers moving along the skin of her abdomen is still a shock, it feels like lightning moving from Andrea’s hand into each inch of skin she touches. The unexpected puff of air she expels in surprise would be embarrassing if Andrea didn’t seem so singularly focused elsewhere. Miranda bites her lip to keep any more sound from escaping.

But she can’t help the tremors that go through her as Andrea ghosts fingers over sensitive skin to the letters of her name. And then those fingers are delicately tracing the letters of her name on Miranda’s skin.

Miranda shifts, presses closer, freely allows the touch. She’s never allowed anyone to touch the skin Andrea’s fingers are tracing. She’s never allowed anyone to touch the name, to trace their fingers over the letters. The act feels incredibly intimate, even more so because Andrea herself is doing it.

“There I am,” Andrea’s breath is hot against Miranda’s skin.

Miranda isn’t sure when she closed her eyes, but she opens them to look down at Andrea. She shakes her head. “You’re everywhere.”

She knows Andrea will ask about the scars later. She can see it in the way her brow wrinkles and in the way her eyes catalogue each rough line across the name.

But, right now Andrea’s mouth is more interested in pressing open mouthed kisses against the letters on her skin. Miranda can’t help the moan that escapes her chest. Wetness coats her underwear uncomfortably, she shifts.

The kisses move slowly back across her stomach and a palm rubs her breast through the material of the bra. Miranda feels the sensation to her core and trembles against the pleasure of it. Her breathing is ragged.

Blue eyes focus on the shift of mouth and hands and Miranda wonders absently when Andrea moved off her lap to kneel between her legs. Andrea’s hands are hot against her knees and her mouth presses just above the skirt at her waist.

Brown eyes, almost black in the flickering light of the fire, watch Miranda. “Can I…”

“Yes,” it’s barely a whisper. Miranda licks her lips. “Yes.”

Andrea’s hands tremble slightly as she slides the material of the skirt up toward Miranda’s waist. She opens Miranda’s thighs with gentle hands and sees her swollen and aching beneath the wet fabric of her underwear.

Miranda groans at the sight of Andrea leaning in to smell her. Every neuron in her body is focused on this moment, attuned to every sensation. When firm hands pull her to the edge of the couch, and move the underwear aside, Miranda knows it won’t take much.

When a hot mouth touches her tentatively, she’s almost undone. Miranda grips the cushions beneath her tightly. When Andrea’s tongue slides through her from entrance to clit and back again, a ragged sigh, more whine than breath, fills the space between them.

And then there’s nothing tentative about Andrea’s focused attention. Her mouth is a constant consuming heat.

Hands hold her down firmly as Miranda jerks and comes in Andrea’s mouth.

Miranda slumps back on her elbows, head tilted back. She tries to catch her breath, tries to still her racing heart, tries to pull every piece of herself that scattered in every direction. She thinks she might be shaking. She thinks she might be crying and she’s not sure why.

Strong arms pull her into a warm embrace. Andrea peppers her with gentle and mindless kisses and whispers little nothings to her. She holds her, solidly.

A warm hand rubs circles across her back, soothing, caring. “Was that okay?”

And Miranda doesn’t have the right words to answer that properly so she just pulls Andrea back onto her lap and kisses her. Kisses her until her breathing is ragged and uneven. Kisses her until she trembles in her arms.

Miranda’s hands fumble on the buttons of Andrea’s pants but she is persistent.

Warm hands cover hers. “You don’t have to.”

Miranda quiets her with a kiss. “I want to.” She tugs at the pants. “Help me.”

The button and fly open easily to Andrea. Miranda pulls them down just enough so she can fit her hand inside them. But the beginnings of a name catch her attention. She pulls the material of the pants aside at Andrea’s right hip. And there, meandering its way across her bone is Miranda’s name. Bright and boldly on display. Her fingers trace it reverently and her mark burns pleasantly on her ribs.

Blue eyes look into brown. “There I am,” she parrots back softly.

“You’re here,” Andrea thumps fingers against her chest, “written deeper than that mark can ever be.”

“Oh Andrea,” she says wistfully, because she’s awed that when she thinks she’s found the edges of this love it’s able to expand and grow a little larger.

When Miranda’s hand slips into her pants, inside her underwear, Andrea has no more words, only sounds of pleasure and pleading.

Miranda’s fingers slide easily through wet flesh, they slip easily inside her. And Andrea is beautiful in pleasure. Uninhibited and wild. She rides Miranda’s hand and opens her eyes so Miranda can see her pleasure.

Miranda kisses her hard. Her free hand pulls at the hem of Andrea’s shirt until she has it high enough she can pull her bra up, too. Andrea’s breasts bounce with each thrust of her pelvis. Miranda must taste. She pulls Andrea to her and sucks at her nipples until Andrea is shaking against her, until the hot, wet flesh around her fingers constricts tightly and Andrea still against her.

Miranda pulls out of Andrea gently. They slump against the couch, Andrea still mostly on top on Miranda, until their breathing evens out.

Six months after Paris, Miranda learns that sex is not the same as making love. The mechanics are essentially the same, but there’s a depth of everything that doesn’t exist in the strict and easy confines of sex. This is better Miranda decides. This is better.

“Come on,” Miranda says into the quietness that has settled easily between them, “we can’t sleep here.”

They move through the silence of the house together; Andrea holds her hand all the way to the bed. Then she holds her through the night, cradled against the warmth of her curves.

Miranda is fifty when she learns that words are more than weapons, that they’re a healing balm to a wounded soul; that love should never be cruel, but always kind and warm and true; that there’s a difference between surviving life and living life.

Miranda learns that alone is a badly made choice but it is never anyone’s destiny.

* * *

“In all the world there is no heart for me like yours. In all the world there is no love for you like mine.”

-Maya Angelou


End file.
